


Scars

by luvkurai



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Bondage, Gags, Kink Meme, Knifeplay, M/M, Possessive Hannibal, Rape, Seriously Violent, Submissive Will, Will's bloodied body handcuffed to a bed, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-06
Packaged: 2017-12-10 01:02:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luvkurai/pseuds/luvkurai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nothing he has ever created, ever will create, can compare to what he is making from the slab of rock that once was Will Graham.</p><p>Hannibal decides he has had enough of Will bending over backwards for Crawford. </p><p>For Kink Meme Prompt: http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/1375.html?thread=746079#cmt746079</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Implementation

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Guys, this is kind of intense. Please look at the tags above and note that all are relatively graphic. 
> 
> Kink Meme Prompt: Seeing Will bend to Jack's will at a crime scene sets a possessive!Hannibal off. He gets Will alone, and physically demonstrates his affections to him (Will may or may not be receptive to them) and then begins tattooing Will's skin with marks of ownership (scarring him) - which Will is very much against, despite whether or not he was receptive earlier. He takes Will again while professing his undying love and driving home the fact that no-one will ever find him attractive now with the scars littering his body, but Hannibal will always think they are beautiful because they were by his hand. Exploit Will's insecurities please :)

The sounds of Jack Crawford’s yelling fills the house, despite the fact that he is actually on the second floor. The CSIs sweeping the ground level are tense with discomfort. Hannibal Lector listens unabashedly as he rises the stairs.

 _“The clock is ticking, Graham._ ” The sole use of Will’s last name is new. The situation must be extreme. “ _We don’t have time for you to—_ ”Hannibal strides into the room in time to hear clearly the bitter emphasis on the last half of the sentence “—‘expand your _technique’_!”

At first, Hannibal does not even see his patient, just sees Jack Crawford’s back, like a broad wall, taking up a disproportionately large portion of the small room. It takes the doctor a moment to realize that Will Graham’s hunched over form is completely obscured by Jack’s shadow. Hannibal must cross half the room before he can see the man.

“Is there an issue with my patient that I should be aware of, Agent?” Hannibal’s carefully trained voice gives nothing away, but inside he is fuming. Jack turns abruptly, but Hannibal does not remove his eyes from Will’s form.

“Mr. Graham has deemed today an acceptable opportunity to switch methods on us.”Hannibal doesn’t respond, waits for Will to explain himself.

“I just…It’s hard to—to keep going into these people’s minds.” Will is stuttering, tone somewhere between a weak excuse and a pitiful apology, directed more towards Jack than Hannibal. “I want to help, I do, but I can’t—“

Hannibal understands. This situation, this conversation, is in reference to Will voicing his desire to stop. No doubt Hannibal’s voicing of his belief in Jack’s manipulation played some part in Will’s decision.

“ _Unacceptable_ ,” Jack growls, rudely cutting Will off. Hannibal momentarily imagines Jack as a simmering pot of French cassoulet on his stove. It is fleeting; Hannibal is very aware that Jack is of more use to him alive than dead. He has no intention of introducing Jack to his dinner table, aside from sharing a meal with him from time to time. “People are _dying_ , Will. The condition of your psychosis is _not_ at the top of my list of priorities. That’s what I pay Dr. Lector for.”

Will has not moved throughout this entire conversation, but his head slowly turns towards the body at the front of the room, arranged in a standing position, leaning against the windowpane so any passerby could see. Hannibal had seen the body from below and assumed the form was living. _An interesting arrangement._ Hannibal is curious at what Will shall discover by delving into the murderer’s mind, but is not pleased by Jack’s messy control of him. Will Graham is not difficult to influence, Hannibal knows, but he would rather be the sole manipulator.

“Alright,” is the answer Will gives, consenting to Jack’s demands. “Ok. I’ll do it.”

Jack grunts, not bothering to provide any expression of his appreciation, and walks from the room. Leaving Will and Hannibal alone with the rotting, half-dressed, woman.

Hannibal feels possessive jealousy wrap around him slowly but firmly. He does tend towards greed, with the occasional inclination towards lust and gluttony, but this goes farther than that. This feeling is not simply a desire for Will Graham—he wants to own him, to possess ever fiber of his being.

When Will’s eyes briefly flutter between Hannibal’s chest and the space above his forehead, a counterfeit of eye contact, there is a tired look on his face; he did not sleep last night. Removing his glasses, he rubs his hand against the back of his neck before sweeping it across his chin and up to his eyes. Wipes furiously.

Hannibal realizes, with a sudden surge of anticipative pleasure, that he has waited too long to place his claim on Will Graham. The tug-of-war between his and Jack’s influence has gone on for far too long, has become far too severe. This day, this case, is the final battle and Hannibal knows what he must do to attain his victory.

 

Six hours later, Crawford drops Will and Hannibal off at the nearest motel. He had tried to pressure Will further, into pulling an all-nighter in the house, though the body had been removed hours earlier, but Hannibal insisted that Will needed sleep. When Crawford had accepted Hannibal’s verdict, firm mouthed, and left the room for a moment to obtain a vehicle, Will gave Hannibal a quick smile of thanks. Hannibal felt a smug smile tug at his lips—his decision had been less for Will’s benefit than for his own.

While Hannibal waits for the manager to retrieve the keys for their rooms, he watches Will out of the corner of his eyes. He sits on the couch, staring at the gaudy flower pot with a sort of intensity that Hannibal knows is reserved for his unsolicited empathic contemplations. His mouth hangs open as he shifts his jaw back and forth, constantly changing the angling of his skull as if it will allow the thoughts to pour of out of his mind.

Though he is too far away to know for sure, Hannibal imagines Will’s fingers twitching as he drives a knife into the woman’s back, over and over again. An infinite loop of delectable homicide.

When he approaches the man, places his hand on a quivering, stooped shoulder, he breathes in deeply. Heady with the smell of passion—edged with blood likely dried on an unnoticed patch of clothing.

Hannibal leads the way to their rooms. Will follows in silence. They are on the far side of the stream of rooms, right next to one another.

“May I come in?” He asks. “Or would you prefer to be alone with your thoughts?”

A look flutters briefly across Will’s face. Yes, Hannibal knows, he would like to be alone, would like to sleep despite the inevitable nightmares. But he is too drained from a day under Jack’s pressure to put forth the effort necessary to be rude. He opens the door and allows Hannibal to step inside ahead of him.

Will drops unceremoniously into one of the two chairs in the room while Hannibal sets about removing his jacket, locking the door and pulling the drapes closed. Will doesn’t notice, takes off his glasses so he can more easily rub at his stubble-covered face.

It takes a total of fifteen seconds for him to circle around Will and wedge a thin strip of fabric between his teeth—an improvised gag. After binding it tightly at the back of his head, Hannibal uses a pair of handcuffs, swiped from a particularly oblivious police officer guarding the crime scene’s perimeter, on one of Will’s wrists.

Despite all of Will’s training, all of Will’s preparation for something like this, it is tragically easy for Hannibal to drag him, struggling and screaming through the gag, to the bed. Hannibal attributes it to Will’s exhaustion, as well as his own experience restraining victims. But Will Graham is not a victim. At least, not in his traditional sense.

Hannibal pins Will to the mattress using his hips and loops the handcuffs around one of the bars at the head of the bed. Only once Will’s free wrist is safely confined does Hannibal lean back and look at him.

In the scuffle, Will received a bruise on his neck and a small cut beneath his left eye. A pity—Hannibal would have preferred each and every mark on Will, temporary and permanent alike, to be experienced meticulously by both Will and himself.

Hannibal allows himself to look directly into Will’s face, and what a sight it is. He blinks rapidly, the beginnings of tears leaking from the creases of his wide eyes. Hannibal wipes at one with his thumb, hushes him when he gives off a high-pitched whimper, anchored in the back of his throat.

“Relax, William, relax…” He commands. The order is not instantly met, of course. He is confused; Hannibal has never before given Will a reason to fear him, never released any violent vibes for him to stumblingly interpret.

Hannibal takes his Laguiole pocket knife from his pocket; Will attempts unsuccessfully to buck his hips and throw Hannibal off him.

“This does not need to be as difficult as you are making it…” Hannibal murmurs. He brushes his finger thoughtfully over the simply sculpted forger bee at the edge of the knife’s handle, so that Will can plainly see. The knife flicks open. He’s shaking now, unsure what this means for him as Hannibal cuts the first button of his shirt with a pop. He makes his way down the shirt, one button at a time, thrilling when Will flinches at the slightest tip of the blade making contact with flesh through the thin fabric. Exquisite.

When the shirt is cut open, Hannibal shoves it out of the way as best he can. He may choose to rip it away later, but for now he enjoys the clash of red plaid against Will’s pale skin, in lieu of yet-unshed blood.

Hannibal trails the knife lightly up his chest and Will pulls his body impossibly tight against the bonds. The metal is cool and Will’s skin is hot and flushed in anticipation of pain.

The knife pierces Will’s skin below his nipple. The cut is shallow at first, but as Hannibal drags it horizontally across his skin he allows it to dip easily downwards. Will cries and arches his back against the handcuffs. Blood pours out of the wound, falling over his chest in both directions, a waterfall. Hannibal dips down to lick at the wound, enjoying the warm, metallic flavor that spreads over his tongue. The rate of blood flow is slightly worrisome; Hannibal could not help himself from pressing the blade deeper that was strictly benign. He tears a strip of fabric from Will’s already ruined, blood-soaked shirt and lays it lightly across the wound. It does not function nearly as effectively as a bandage would, but Hannibal makes do.

Tongue and mouth still red with Will’s blood, Hannibal trails kisses across his collarbone and up his neck, nipping playfully in a way that is only vaguely meant to entice. Shivers make their way up and down Will’s spine. When he reaches the top of Will’s neck, he presses his lips against a fleshy earlobe. The flesh tastes delicious, the texture smooth and perfect against Hannibal’s teeth.

“Your reaction is causing the blood loss to escalate superfluously.” He allows his mouth the move lightly against Will’s inner ear as he speaks, the breeze of air purposefully obtruding the caverns. Will jerks away, unsettling the cloth on his abdomen. Hannibal stills him with a firm hand against his shoulder. Will convulses in silent sobs as Hannibal cuts him again, from collarbone to sternum in a smoothly arched curve on his left side. Hannibal repeats it on the right side, in perfect symmetry. Eyes press tightly shut, neck arches backwards more in defiance than in the submission such an action would imply if they inhabited an entirely animalistic universe. But it is submission Hannibal desires.

Keeping Will caged beneath his haunches, Hannibal presses the blade lightly against cheek. He is careful not to break the skin—face wounds not there the day before would cause even men like Jack to wonder—as he scraps across stubble, watching microscopic flecks of dark hair go flying.

“Look at me, William.” The command receives the accented staccato of the blade clashing against bared teeth, one at a time. Will obeys.

If Hannibal previously saw defiance in Will’s tense, angry posture, it all falls away at the sight of Will’s eyes subsequent the infliction of three blemishes upon his chest. Hopelessness.

“Watch me, or I will make it hurt.”

The sardonic twitch of Will’s face, the way his nostrils flare just so, is resonant of their therapy sessions—he knows it will hurt regardless. Still, Will pointedly lowers his eyes to the knife, obedience the equivalent of a plea for mercy, for his life. As if it is necessary for him to demand his life from Hannibal.

He sets about decorating his William, up and down his chest, curving lines into an abstract design that means both nothing and everything simultaneously. Symbolic through its lack of symbolism. Hannibal is an artist, has always considered himself one, be it in his artful murders, his sketches and building designs, or his masterpieces born in the kitchen. But nothing he has ever created, ever will create, can compare to what he is making from the slab of rock that once was Will Graham. The scars will never heal, they are permanent, but they are only the first of the many steps Hannibal will take.

“These marks make you mine, Will…” Hannibal whispers, voice low. He knows he is being needlessly cryptic, but Will’s understanding shall come in time. “They prove how much I care for you.”

Once Will’s chest is covered with blood and the bloodier lines of lacerations, Hannibal uses the knife to rip the remnants of Will’s shirt from his arms. Here, he is careful to make the cuts less deep, as arms shallowly house necessary arteries and veins that, if sliced accidently, would require more attention than a couple bandages, real or makeshift. Will cries out against the gag, though they have noticeably lessened in volume. He would have preferred to hear Will scream and cry throughout the process, but a motel is too public, he would almost certainly be heard.

Finally, after about an hour of careful effort, he deems his work complete. Will Graham was perfection before, but now he is divine. The scars are symmetric, too artfully done for Will to ever feign that they were inflicted through a car accident or some other preferable lie. Hannibal would like to do his back as well, but it would have to wait—the wounds needed to stay upright for as long as possible.

“This would be quite the predicament for us to be found in, no?” Hannibal says as he reaches behind Will’s head to cut the gag free. As if Will is in the situation by choice. “I recommend keeping quiet.”

The knife shuts with a click, but Hannibal places it visibly beside Will’s hip, silently stressing that it can and will be used if necessary. Will presses his teeth together and, to Hannibal’s surprise, does not cry out. He would not want to be the _victim_ , after all. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t make a peep, until Hannibal pulls Will’s belt from his hips and pulls the final layers of clothing, jeans and gray-stripped briefs, down past his hips.

“ _Don’t_ , don’t…” Will whispers. He is weak from blood loss but tries his best to express his anger. “ _Why_ are you doing this?You- You’re supposed to _help_ me.”

“I am helping you, my dear Will,” He says, without even the slightest trace of irony in his voice. He brushes his thumb against the base of Will’s penis. “What happened today, with Jack, was completely unacceptable. You need not bend to that man’s whims.”

“J-just to y-yours…?” He speaks sarcastically, but his voice hisses out between gritted teeth. Hannibal does not respond, only smiles.

“My whims and yours are one in the same. You have yet to realize it, but it is true.”

Too quick for William to prepare himself, he twists his hand in a fist on Will’s cock. He groans, attempts to shake himself out of the grip despite the pain it must cause. Hannibal gives his hand three hard jerks, pulled up and down Will’s rising cock, with no lubrication but the mostly dried lifeblood on his palm and fingertips.

“Stop, _stop_ ,” Will murmurs, as if, should he speak too loudly, Hannibal would go back to slicing through his flesh. “You’ve done _enough, stop!_ ”

A sharp squeeze around his balls serves both to draw a short cry of pain from his lips and to silence his wretched supplicating. With a cupped hand, Hannibal presses against the first wound, the deepest, and draws a new stream of thin, red liquid into his fingers. When he has enough, he wraps the moistened hand around Will’s cock and pumps again. This time his hand can glide faster, smoother, and Will’s pained exterior melts away to unwanted hedonism. He lifts himself off the bed slightly and Will’s hips follow him upwards, thrusting as much he can into the grip. Hannibal moves his hand beneath Will’s hips, skimming his thumb along the ridge between his cheeks until he finds the rim. It takes one forceful push to insert his index finger, up to the first joint. Will’s moans are beautiful, even as he shakes his head back and forth, begging for cessation. Forced orgasm is, Hannibal knows, one of the more horrifying forms of torture, especially for someone like Will Graham who is so transparently at odds with his body; he is likely a virgin still.

“See, William?” Hannibal coos. “See how good I can make you feel?”

Will pants, lips forming the first syllables of curses and empty threats. The truth of the situation is that Will Graham has nothing to give, nothing to offer Hannibal except his pain, and the sentimental sensations brought forth as he fights his way through it. Will is utterly powerless. Hannibal will work to change that, in time, but for now he appreciates the way it shoots jolts of pressure through his skull, down his spine, ending at his dick, where an erection quickly forms.

Hannibal imagines that Will’s muddled countenance has made the lines between pain and pleasure even more blurred than it would be for another person. Hannibal knows he delves into the psyche of victims from time to time, feels what they felt. It is simply easier for him to pull back from it, as their reactions to stimuli tend towards the ordinary. It is not so much an issue as an inconvenience if he receives a souvenir from them. All those souvenirs surface now though, as Will’s mind blatantly scrolls between the sensation of cutting and being cut, fucking and being fucked.

Killing and being killed.

“I _adore_ you,” he whispers.

Hannibal leans forward and kisses Will, full on the mouth. He tastes blood, slightly, at the corners of his mouth, where the friction of the fabric against his skin was greatest. He envelopes the man, presses their mouths together with all the mercy of a raging storm upon the sea. Draws the tongue forcefully into motion to capture the wet muscle between his teeth. It is not enough to draw blood, and he has no desire to actually follow through, but he imagines sinking his teeth into the flesh, deep, and pulling it straight out of Will’s mouth. He imagines taking Will home with him, keeping him tied up and silent, without the use of a gag, for the rest of their days.

It is an attractive image, but then he would have no way of running his hands through the mysterious waters that make up Will Graham’s mind. Somehow, he does not think written language would make the process quite as enjoyable.

Hannibal removes his teeth from Will’s mouth, commands, “Tell me you love me, Will.”

He shakes his head, refusing despite his desperate need to reach orgasm. Hannibal bends the finger buries deep in Will’s ass to the side, scraping his finger nail in a way that makes Will _scream._

“I…I…” He can’t say it, Hannibal knows. He gives two final pumps of his hand, one final thrust of his finger, so it is up to the knuckle, and he says it: “I… _love you…_ ”

And though it may not be entirely true, not yet, Hannibal knows that in the mess of Will’s mind, paired with the exceedingly useful chemicals brought forth from sex, in this moment Will loves him.

Hannibal experiences Will Graham’s orgasm through their coupled mouths. Ropes of Will’s cum hits against his quivering chest; Hannibal scoops the thick liquid up with his fingers and pushes it through curly, sweat-wetted brown locks. Blood is carelessly mixed in through the process; it is not a terribly bad look for Will.

He would have liked to fuck Will—to pound against the man’s prostate until he fell apart beneath him again and again, but the movements Hannibal desires to make would only rip Will’s frayed seams to pieces. It is very clear to Hannibal that Will only barely does not need to be taken to the hospital. _All good things to those who wait_.

He rises gracefully from the bed, retreating to the bathroom for a washcloth.

“You have done very well…” He praises as he wipes up excess blood. Once that is finished, he retrieves bandages from his bag (also swiped from the crime scene) and places them on the deeper scared areas. His kisses Will again, brushing their tongues lightly together, drags his thumb down across his bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Please… please take the cuffs off…” Will pleads when Hannibal pulls away.

“I would release you, William,” he says. “But it is too likely that you would upset the wounds; they need time to heal. I will return for you in a couple hours, just past sunrise. Sleep—Doctor’s orders.”

He shuts off the light as he leaves the room to return to his own and Will gasps at the onset of darkness.

He knows William will not even close his eyes to rest.

 


	2. Acceptance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It can be difficult to switch between POVs inside a story while still keeping the same tone. Hence why this took so long. I hope it does not dissapoint.

_In the dream, time oscillates between sunset and night. It is never noon, never morning. The sun is either thinning or altogether absent._

_In the dream, there is a stag. It’s antlers are razor sharp, as if they have been sharpened into deadly points as some sick joke. They scrape shallowly at him, cutting through fabric, through flesh. Prepped to impale him like one of the Shrike’s victims, or perhaps the copycat’s._

_In the dream, he holds a knife. He can use it to do terrible things, to slice Abigail Hobbs’ throat, to gut his faceless mother, to stab the perpetual onlooker at the window. But he cannot use it to save himself. He is prey, he is predator, but he is never survivor._

He wakes up in his office. His hand rests below his chin, supporting the substantial weight of his skull as well as all the horrors resting within it. He doubts his eyes ever actually closed, despite how truly deep his sleep had been.

Absently, Will dips his hand under his shirt. Checking for the rough feel of scar tissue beneath his fingers. This action has integrated itself into his routine. He checks for the scars, multiple times an hour. He feels a rush of blissful hope during in the moments before he finds them. He has to force himself from doing it while he’s teaching, when the eyes of forty FBI Academy students are trained on him. Every time he does this, skims his fingers across his abdomen, he half-forgets where they are. It almost feels like they move, like they have a life of their own, possessing the power to swirl across his flesh like arms or tentacles.

Even when he gains momentary mettle, enough to confront a mirror without a shirt on, it seems as if they’ve shifted.

 

Five days after Hannibal bound him to the bed in that shoddy motel room, etched patterns into his skin, Will decides to forfeit sleeping. The nightmare refuses to cease and it is too much for him to handle on top of his constant waking fear of Hannibal Lecter. It is the night of the first missed appointment with his assaulter, when he sits up all night with a tumbler of whiskey balancing haphazardly in the palm of his hand. Every movement, every sound, occurring within or outside his home births a new wave of trepidation.

 _I should call Jack._ He should do a lot of things. Learning Taekwondo would be towards the top of the list. He remembers Hannibal’s hand in his hair and wonders when he became so wretchedly _weak_.

He has no idea why he didn’t call the cops on Hannibal the second he was released, the morning after. Hannibal didn’t even threaten him, said nothing but a handful of instructions on how to treat the wounds that Will pointedly ignored.

He had the gall to _smile at him_ , as he moved to lock himself in the bathroom. Will bristles with anger at the memory.

 

Days pass by, weeks, with no word from the doctor. Will goes through the motions of his life, teaches at the academy, allows himself to be ushered between crime scenes whenever Jack desires it of him. He does everything, with the discernible exception of attending the semi-weekly ‘discussion sessions’ with Dr. Hannibal Lecter. Withdrawal from dialogue regarding his pulsing phobias becomes manifest in other aspects of his life.

Jack’s attitude towards Will oscillates, with regularity, between friendly concern and irritation. He does not yell as he did during the Window Case, especially since he managed to solve it, despite everything. Will understands where Jack is coming from, he really does. Jack cares about his job, but more than that he worries that he could do more to save people. The problem is, as of late, Will’s help has become indispensible, crucial to every other investigation.

He finds that while he can still delve into killer’s minds, it is difficult to separate himself. Separate cases bleed into one another, like ink on wet paper. He mixes up names, motives and his use diminishes, no matter how much Jack necessitates.

He remembers Hannibal’s words— _you need not bend to that man’s whims_. Wonders if this was his plan all along.

Will tries harder; Jack calls Hannibal in because _his presence seems to help_ and Will exchanges forced pleasantries with him. He throws up in a bush when no one is looking, fingering the scars all the while. Later, Hannibal looks at him like he knows.

That night, it is 10:35 when the door bell rings. He rises, managing to get most of the dogs to stay in the living room. He parts the drapes and peers out the window before snapping backwards in fear. _Hannibal._

“You can’t come in here,” he shouts through the door. He presses his back to the wall of the entrance hall. _Why is he here?_

Cindy paws against the door while Winston nips at his leg; they want to see who’s come to visit. He wants to shoo them away, but he doesn’t want Hannibal to know he’s still standing there.

When the sound of a key fitting into the door’s lock fills his ears, he stumbles backwards a couple steps, tells Cally and Winston to go to the other room. They flee with their tales between their legs, Will wishes he could do the same. Will realizes, with dread, that he gave Hannibal the key, to feed his dogs. He could have come here, crept up into Will’s room in the dead of night and attacked him anytime he wanted over the past three weeks. Will’s heart constricts on itself.

“Why knock if you’re just going to break into my home?” Will asks when Hannibal slides into the house, pocketing the key rather than returning it. He still has enough control over his voice to be sarcastic.

“I was trying to be polite; you obviously were not going to make the same effort.” Will shifts his tense jaw, diverting his eyes to floor, waiting for Hannibal to elaborate or _something_. “Have you eaten? I brought dinner.”

“I’m not hungry.” Will knows he is being rude, doesn’t care. In a few moments his brevity will run out and he’ll be a quivering mess, ripe for Hannibal to further disfigure. He has to get the man out of here before then.

“You must eat, William,” and there is no room for negotiation.

Will stands awkwardly in his kitchen, feeling like a foreigner, while Hannibal makes use of his shoddy stove and cutting board collection. He brought his own knives with him and Will can’t help but imagine them slicing through his navel, disemboweling him.

“You have not come to any of our sessions for quite a long time,” he says. “I worried, but chose to accept your boundaries for a short while.”

Apparently this denotes the end of that ‘short while’. Will slides into a chair and crosses his arms over his chest so he can grasp them, ceasing their shaking.

“Are you here to finish the job?” He feels Hannibal’s eyes slide over him. The knife drops to countertop loudly and almost instantly Will feels Hannibal behind him. He shifts his body forward, the movement meant to propel him forward, out of the chair, but Hannibal’s hand on his shoulder keeps him firmly seated.

The grip isn’t particularly tight, he could get out of it if he tried, but the idea seems ridiculous, especially with the memory of how easily he was restrained last time. If Hannibal wants him in the chair, he will be in the chair.

He circles Will, never separating his hand from the pointed jut of his shoulder bone. Kneels between his legs. His eyes bore into Will’s, expression one of disapproval. Disapproval resonant of gags and handcuffs and an expensive switchblade. _The stag’s threatening antlers._ Will tenses.

“I thought we were going to be civil tonight. I thought we could calmly have dinner together and discuss our relationship like adults.”

 _What relationship?_ Will demands silently, eyes narrowing, because he’s holding his breath, to afraid to even permit his sternum to rise with blessed air. Hannibal smiles and slides his hand to Will’s collarbone, where they both know there is a scar. Will feels it prickle at the touch of its creator.

Nimble fingers begins to unbutton Will’s shirt, gray with checked red.

“Don’t—“ He tries to shove Hannibal away; he only leans forward, keeping himself stead with an elbow against Will’s thighs.

“Hush, I want to see how you’ve healed.” But he doesn’t look at Will’s chest, he looks at his face, straight into his scattered eye line.

“I _haven’t_ healed—“ He says, petulant. Hannibal leans forward, pressing his teeth against the scar trailing down the center of his chest. Teeths at it. Will groans. Tries again, in vain, to push him away, but Hannibal’s hands leap to his wrists, pinning them to the arms of the chair.

“I imagine that you think them quite ugly, these marks,” Hannibal murmurs. He gazes up at Will, who turns away from both Hannibal and the scars in disgust, even as he writhes beneath his mouth. Hannibal strays half an inch to the right of a scar to his nipple, biting to recoup Will’s attention. “I am afraid most people are likely to feel that way… Though I cannot fathom why.”

He stands up, pulling Will with him. Arms slide through sleeves, fabric falling behind him, leaving him exposed and cold. With the undersides of his knees still pressed against the chair, Will possesses no balance, must depend on Hannibal’s grip to keep upright. His tormentor does not let him forget this, twisting his spine languidly backwards. Will can do nothing but fiercely grip at Hannibal’s arms as the man continues to bite at the wounds.

“I find them lovely.”

Stepping gracefully to the side, he pushes Will’s back into the wall beside the table. Then, he kisses him. Will can taste dried blood, so faint that if he had not just watched Hannibal suck his wounds he would not know to look for it.

A sensation cross Will’s mind, briefly, before flickering away, drowned in some distant corner of his mind. Palliation, the single nonsensical word that comes to him, before it disappears; Hannibal’s hand is against his crotch. His penis hardens much too quickly; Hannibal notices and chuckles indulgently. The panic from this understanding is dulled by the sweet, terrifying pressure this man exerts simply with his hand through his jeans.

“My darling boy.”

Hannibal is dropping to his knees again. Will’s jeans are undone, undone and lowered. Cock taken in mouth and his blood is rushing in all the wrong directions.

_This is wrong._

The panic attack comes up on Will like a cobra, wrapping around his every limb and squeezing the life out of him. First he tries to shut his eyes, but the images brought forth are too horrifying, _stags and knives and swirling scars controlling his every movement,_ so instead he keeps his eyes painfully open. He stares straight across the room, at a black and white photograph of a forest someone gave him ages ago. He hasn’t so much as glanced at it in years but now all he can focus on is how dark the area between the brown trees are, how despondent nature looks when stripped of all color. How the wood seems to be overflowing with all the bloody potential in it. A wolf, a mountain lion, could jump out any moment and—

“Will.” The sound of his name, snaps him away from the picture. Makes him look down at the man on his knees before him. He realizes that his knees are shaking, that he is hyperventilating. He had not even noticed his cock slapping limp against his thigh. The noises coming out of his mouth were blatantly unrelated to Hannibal’s ministrations. “I need you calm so I can take care of you. You do want release, correct?”

Will nods his head in understanding—what happened to the Will that wanted Hannibal out of his home?—but gets the feeling that tranquil is the last thing Hannibal desires him to be. Will’s cock remains flaccid despite Hannibal’s perfectly firm grip and the doctor eventually rises, admitting defeat—temporarily.

Hannibal leads him through his own home as if he has taken up ownership of it with his ascendancy over Will. They pass Will’s dogs and Hannibal dismisses them upon approach; they are chillingly obedient and Will feels betrayed. In Will’s bedroom, Hannibal veers them to the right, to the bathroom. Will wonders how he knows, with such certainty, of everything in his home’s location. He imagines the doctor peeking behind every corner of his home while he worked, pulled all-nighters at the BSU.

At the sight of the mirror, Will’s temporary pliancy dissipates. Will cannot, will not look at the scars now, naked in the presence of their creator. Hannibal’s grip on the base of his neck has not faltered, but now it intensifies, likely leaving bruises in a divulging hand shape. He holds Will up before the mirror, hand tracing each and every scar with an air of appreciation. Due to the scabbed flesh Will can barely feel the touch. Hannibal kisses him again, chaste though his mouth obstinate against Will’s lips.

“Look at yourself, Will,” he murmurs. “You are perfect.”

Will squeezes his eyes shut. Sobs, “Stop, _stop_ , I’m _not_ —“

Hannibal quiets him with a firm hand, knotting into Will’s curls until his scalp burns with pain and he can do nothing but open his eyes. Pathetic.

When tears spring to his eyes, the doctor trails his hand lightly up his penis, head to base, over and over again.

“You are perfect to me.”

Will shivers, _that_ feeling rearing its ugly, expectant head. The feeling that he’s been waiting for this, _needing it_ , for weeks. Needing to hear these words or perish agonizingly in their absence.

Will cannot count the amount of times he has imagined going to bed with a significant other, a faceless woman with an average body but an accepting mind. The image is new, born in the same instance as the one on his chest. He imagines laying her down, taking off her clothes while she removes his and then she stops and everything freezes. Her face, which may or may nor have held feelings of love before, is flagrant in disgust. He is a monster; that she had not seen it before, in his abysmal mind, is some terrible fluke.

“I accept every part of you, Will. Adulate you, really.” Hannibal purrs. An untruth of placidity. “That has always been your greatest fear, correct? Not being accepted because of the scars inside you.”

Will snivels, moaning and trying to pull himself together because he _knows_ he is being manipulated. He isn’t stupid. Just fragile in every conception of the word. Hannibal takes his face in one hand, using the other to wrap around him in an embrace. He presses his mouth lightly above the highest scar, the one lying just below his collar bone, licks lightly at the mark.

“These scars, they prove that you are mine. They are my promise to you, William. I promise that I will always accept you for who and what you are. Inside and out.”

Will shakes his head back and forth, trying with no real strength to inch backward. He imagines himself sprinting from the bathroom, through the house, past his dogs and into the cool outside. He imagines running into the fields and being _safe_. He imagines being alone.

The thought is more painful than anything.

Throughout the largely one-sided conversation, throughout Hannibal’s reintroduced touch, his cock has hardened, his body flushed.

A long list of psychology terms run through his head—dependency, capture-bonding, Stockholm Syndrome, sadomasochism. But just because Will can sense the invisible hand of manipulation does not mean he is immune to it.

“Please, please, I _need_ —“

Hannibal swiftly confiscates his glasses, placing them on the edge of the sink. “Go lay in the bed. I will be with you shortly.”

Will hates himself for how quickly he obeys, laying out on the mattress waiting for the viciously abusive man to arrive and fuck him.

Hannibal returns with a thick cord in his hands—hemp rope from Will’s fishing supplies. He easily takes hold of Will’s wrist and begins to knot it—

“N-no, please…” Hannibal pauses at Will’s pleading, glancing up at him. “Please don’t—don’t tie me up.”

The man considers him, letting the rope drop as he brushes the back of his fingers against Will’s bared neck. He hums thoughtfully, the vibrations created disproportionate to the volume of the sound. Hannibal’s wrist flicks to the right, pulling the rope from Will’s limb and letting it fall to the floor beside the bed.

“So long as you are good.” Will nods faintly though he cannot help but cry out when Hannibal’s teeth bite at his upper lip. Where teeth bring pain, the pressure of soft, wet tongue brings hallowed relief.

Hannibal moves Will’s legs apart with a single knee. His hand presses against the head of his cock—Will pushes his hips up into the touch—before trailing down semi-threateningly over and past his balls, pushing them out of the way and resting at his hole. He doesn’t use lube, not that Will expected him to. He’s cut Will open, shoved him against the wall; he obviously has no concern for his pain. Two centimeters of his index finger slide in, slowly, then plunge up to the knuckle. Another finger presses its way in and Hannibal wastes no time letting Will adjust. Scissors roughly at his ass while he mewls and groans.

“Oh god, oh—“

“Quiet,” Hannibal commands. He pushes the third finger in for only an instant before withdrawing his hand. Belt buckle is undone, pants shoved down his legs, out of the way as he shifts on his knees, removing them entirely. Will sees Hannibal’s cock for the first time with eyes that are simultaneously terrified and desperate with unadulterated need.

“ _Please_ —“ Inhumanly fast, an arm slams into Will’s neck, cutting of his words and his air.

“Begging is unbecoming, William,” he hisses through a smirk. Still, he gives in, placing himself against the quivering hole. Mirroring the prior movements of his fingers.

“ _Ah_ —shut _up_ —“ A dark look crosses Hannibal’s face, the forward press of his cock halting. Something Will has only ever seen in flashes, in bits that mean nothing unless combined, but this time it isn’t going anywhere. Will wonders what this man is. The way Hannibal had pinned him that first time, cut into his skin in that appalling spectacle of possessiveness, drove on lusciously until Will was in the palm of his hand… It wasn’t the first time he had done such things. Who is he? What has he done? Will wonders both from one perspective, troubled for his own well being, and another—that of a teacher and an investigator. This is his vocation.

The pressure on his neck diminishes, as if in preparation to spring back with renewed force. Will imagines a scene; him breaking free, him grabbing the knife in his bedside table, him leaping at Hannibal in self defense, Hannibal disarming him and burying the blade in his stomach.

Will understands the alarming nature of human potential more than anyone, sees it in himself hundreds of times a day. He should be afraid of the terrible conceivabilities Hannibal observably possesses, but when the look disappears long moments later, is replaced by a characteristically temperate smile, he cannot bring himself to be. The arm falls away from his collarbone.

He surges forward, knocking the air from Will’s chest, like a blast of cold water. He arches his back, elongates his neck until it burns, than farther. With eyes squeeze shut, he does not notice teeth on his neck until they sink into him. The pain makes him open his eyes again, seeing the side of Hannibal’s head against his jaw. When he moves to jerk away, a hand takes hold of the thin hairs at the base of his neck, not quite holding him in place, but palpably unhesitant to do just that. So Will forces himself to hold still, one struggle among many.

Hannibal shifts his hips, cock circling inside him and back again in simultaneously recurrent and arbitrary movements. Or perhaps Will is simply too far gone to notice.

Hannibal forgoes his grip on Will’s neck. Ventures downwards. Teeth and nails scrape against his scars, tearing the scab away in a couple places. Will bites into his bottom lip rather than scream; Hannibal is pleased, parts from his masterpiece to lap at the blood dribbling down his chin.

“I love you, William.” Hannibal hisses the words against his lips, and though they are obviously a lie, because this is too dysfunctional, too destructive to be love, they are all Will needs in this moment. Still, he can’t, won’t return the words. Is undyingly grateful that the man isn’t forcing them out of him.

“Please… _please_ don’t leave me…” Panic at the prospect of solitude.

“Never. You are mine, all mine.” He thrusts against the prostate, and growls out, “ _Forever._ ”

Will’s body finally tenses up with sweet release. He feels his back seize, hears Hannibal’s desperate efforts at constant friction but sees nothing as supernovas explode before his eyes. Nightmares shoved to the edge of his vision. Worlds ending over and over again for an eternal moment.  

Through the post-orgasm fog, Will is only vaguely aware of Hannibal shifting his body, bending his limbs that are too sore to even object. Lips brush against his calf as it passes by Hannibal’s lips. He turns Will onto his side, bending one leg up against his abdomen and stretching the other down the beg, between Hannibal’s legs. They are an entanglement of bodies, of flesh; Will cannot tell where he ends and Hannibal begins, does not care to find out.

The new position allows Hannibal to press farther, painfully deep. Cum slides off Will’s chest, onto the sheets beside them. Will is already nonsensically, painfully hard, though he cannot imagine another orgasm.

“Hanni—“ Will tries to moan the name but a hand slaps against his face, palm wide. Forcing his face into the pillow.

When he speaks—“ _Do. Not. Speak.”—_ each word is accented by a thrust, painfully harsh. He sounds breathless, though he doesn’t look it, still donned in his gray shirt, though his jacket and trousers have been discarded. Will watches him out of the corner of his eye, mouthing at the thumb strayed to his lips.

His whines turn high-pitched, breathy. He feels as if he’s suffocating, wants to convey this to Hannibal because even as he is his torturer— _his lover?_ —he is his therapist, doctor, though not officially. His struggles over the past weeks are coming back to him, _mothers and angels and knives everywhere._ But he can’t speak, can’t breathe. If it was any other time, he would think it to be a panic attack.

As if sensing his unrest, or perhaps seeing the burning hot wetness in his eyes, Hannibal leans back just slightly, turning Will’s head. While he does not remove his thumb from Will’s mouth, he touches Will everywhere with the rest of his hand. Palm skimming across nose and jaw, hairline and chin. A blind man’s memorization through touch. Blood sticks to his eye lashes and Will wonders how many times he’ll end up like this—sweating and bleeding and covered in his own semen. Pinned to a bed beneath Hannibal. And he feels despicable, but he thinks he could get used to it.

A hand drags up his shaft and he cums again, less magnificent but just as devastating. Hannibal is only a few seconds behind him; Will feels the warm liquid fill his insides, dribble out around the man’s cock. If he looked down, there would no doubt be blood. Will doesn’t look down.

“Good, Will.” To his exhausted ears the commendation is a serenade, perfect to lull him into the looming nightmares.

Hannibal removes his cock, straightens out Will’s limbs, murmuring his name paired with endearments and praise for his perfections. After a moment, he leaves, voicing his intent to retrieve a washcloth and wash them both. In his absence, Will looks down at himself. Sees the scars, open and oozing. The bleeding will stop soon and Hannibal will bandage him up again.

He knows that the scars will never heal, and that there are many more to come. Accepts it, because what else can he do? This is only the beginning.

He falls asleep to the sensation of Hannibal wiping his body clean. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> luvkurai.tumblr.com


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